Langue[dot]doc 1305

by Gillian Polack

  “Come on. Surely all these protocols are for something,” Mac wore his I-can-get-a-rise-if-I-look-serious-enough face. He was missing people. Over the last three days, his tasks had taken him everywhere but the common workplace. Also, he had spent three hours fishing various dropped items out from under the wire mesh. Mac had therefore descended on the office area to see what trouble he could make. It was fair return.

  “I love these protocols,” Ben declared. “I would marry them if they only had a heart. But our ethics are still fucked.”

  “Why?” Sylvia peeked her head out from behind her computer to show she was part of the conversation. Cormac took one look at her pretty head and decided that there was no more stirring. He took himself off: there was always maintenance to be done, especially since every single one of the scientist buggers was careless as hell. Except Tony, who was a good bloke.

  Sylvia kept working away on cleaning up her data as she was listening. Tomorrow she would be on-site, and she didn’t want to return to the mess. Buried underneath the rational reason for tidying was Artemisia in the dormitory, ‘sorting out a couple of zombies’ which had propelled Sylvia into finding something of her own to sort.

  Sylvia hated it when the historian said something strange and tantalising and left everyone wanting more. She did it on purpose, too. Artemisia was just greedy for attention. Zombies! Sylvia deleted a whole batch of dud files with a huff of release.

  “We cleaned out these caves. Pre-modern and all the surveys were perfunctory.”

  “We had permission. I’ve read the permission slips myself.”

  “Sure. The French Government in Paris in the twenty-first century has given us permission to muck round with something in Languedoc in the fourteenth and told me to check that we’re good little people and don’t change things too much. That’s like the Yankees giving permission for someone to exploit the South during Restoration.”

  “What’s Restoration?”

  “Bloody Aussies.”

  “You’re from the South, aren’t you?” Sylvia was only half-curious. Konig’s accent was TV America.

  “University of Texas. Austin. Also Paris. Paris, Texas and Paris, France. I get around.”

  “So what are you trying to say?”

  “That the south in France is a bit of a second-class citizen in Paris. We’re here pretty soon after the genocide, too.”

  “Genocide?” Sylvia looked concerned.

  “Ask Artemisia.”

  “She’ll get grumpy and write me one of those briefings. It’ll either be too short to tell us anything, or it will be twenty pages long or it will threaten us with death and doom and damnation. Artemisia is predictable. And boring.”

  “Can’t blame her.”

  “So you’ve shifted. You’re seeing things from her view.”

  “More from my view.”

  “As a Texan.”

  “Actually,” and Ben gave Sylvia a very sweet smile, “I was born in South Carolina. And I can’t see that we should have made the decision to destroy this habitat.”

  “We need to live somewhere.”

  “That race to get back in time was a mistake. All the hype compromised us. Luke’s secret project is still a pipedream. We’re fucked.”

  “Do me a favour — don’t talk like that to the others.”

  “I won’t. Destabilising people in a difficult situation is not something I do. I’m just saying, to you, that we made a big mistake. The others know it. Did you know that Tony has taken to wandering the long way to his horticulture zone?”

  “What long way?”

  “The very long way. Via the Cirque de Soleil.”

  “I don’t know the Cirque de Soleil. Damn these names.” Sylvia looked for her map.

  “The End of the World. He checks out the path leading from the castle. He picks up lost items like the rest of us. Keeps them under his bed. Doesn’t put them in the bin for home.”

  “We should report it.”

  “If we do, will we have problems? If I tell everyone we’re compromised, will we have problems?”

  “It’ll make Artemisia look like a prophet.” Sylvia’s mouth was tight around these words.

  “And we wouldn’t want that.” Ben’s tone was harsh. “The ring-in seeing the whole thing clearly.”

  “We all care too much.”

  “Except Artemisia.”

  “Except bloody Artemisia. Say, if we rename her Mary, then we could call her bloody Mary.”

  “And she could come after us with an axe.”

  “Or we could do what Pauline suggests.”

  “What?”

  “Next month, send a message saying they need to collect her.”

  “That there, sending her home, would cost more than you and I will be worth in our whole lives, by ten. We’re with her for the duration. Briefings and all.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Plain Sight

  Historical Briefing — wimples (file from Artemisia Wormwood)

  Murray, you remember when we hid to avoid those women and their basket-things? You asked me about the baskets and they’re that shape so that they can sling over the shoulder/back. If we had seen the women on their return journey then we would know what they were gathering, but my guess is they were out for a bit of wild harvesting.

  Anyway, that’s not the subject of this brief. The subject of this brief is your comment when we saw the three women.

  “Bloody heck, the Moslem invasion,” you said. There actually was a Moslem invasion of this region, but that was around 800 and Charlemagne and his forces repelled it and won back cities and stuff like that. One of Charlemagne’s great leaders and counsellors was a guy called William — he’s the one whose bones are in the abbey. It’s why we’re trapped indoors due to medieval tourists this week.

  He is, to use one of Cormac’s favourite phrases, “An awesome dude.” Although he’s been dead hundreds of years even now (and way over a thousand years in our time) he has that special status between life and death because he’s a saint. He can intervene with God for humans. Hence the pilgrims and the very Christian nature of this town compared with others in the region.

  He died here and his bones are the ones we would see on display if we were allowed to move publicly. There’s no way we can see those bones — they’re very valuable and that whole abbey has been built to house them and a piece of the True Cross.

  The reason I say this so adamantly is because I know that Cormac will want to visit his awesome dude because William of Gellone who is also Saint William and William of Toulouse is also William of Orange, an epic hero. I can’t remember if I’ve briefed you about this yet, apart from the giant legend. I have something detailed on file, should you want it. He’s important and legendary and complicated. It’s filed under “William - stories about.”

  So what were these women with head coverings if not Moslem?

  Almost anything. In this region they could be generic Western Christian (what we think of as Catholic) or Jewish. I don’t know if any Cathars escaped the Crusade here (Guilhem says not, but he’s not the kind of person who would tempt anyone to self-identify as a heretic), but if they did, adult Cathar women would probably cover their hair, too. It’s the respectable thing to do. Given the proximity of a major abbey (built by William — he’s doomed to haunt me) my bet is on generic Christian. Not nuns, just everyday women doing everyday tasks. Adult women wear head coverings in this time and place. Social norms and all that.

  * * *

  Guilhem didn’t have much time, so he hurried Artemisia along. He also spoke too quickly. She had to ask him three times before she understood what they were doing.

  They were, apparently, walking the village boundaries and the boundaries of the important landowners outside Saint-Guilhem, so that she and her people would understand the markers and stay outside them. To reassure the townsfolk that Artemisia and her friends knew to stay away. This worried her — it meant people knew of the time team. She would have
to talk to Luke again, and maybe Sylvia. She so didn’t want to have a conversation about boundaries with Sylvia.

  Away from the boundary markers, Guilhem was more relaxed, although still hurried. He showed her where the charcoal burners worked and told her it would be a good idea to stay clear. The blacksmith controlled the charcoal production, it appeared and he was someone to be reckoned with. Also, Guilhem made it clear, someone Guilhem respected. A man who was not reluctant, Artemisia worked out (her brain was working overtime, even as her lungs and legs found Guilhem’s pace tough) to talk to men of rank. In other words, the rest of the town left Guilhem very much alone. Interesting.

  * * *

  Artemisia was being excluded again, so she noticed small things. For instance, when Geoff wasn’t concentrated and focused, the area around his eyes relaxed. Then he smiled and his eyes became brown and merry and all his Islander ancestry glowed through them.

  She wondered what else he had in his genes. Nothing he talked about, or that worried him. She liked this about him - there was deep joy, rather than deep anxiety. Konig was all anxiety and fraught beauty. Mac was half anger and half clown. Tony was in a world of his own, watching the team as if it comprised an alien species. Luke was…Luke. Geoff was a regular nice guy. He wasn’t uncomplicated, but he was…easy to get on with? Comfortable? Funny?

  She wasn’t the only one who liked Geoff Murray. Artemisia suspected that every woman in the expedition was secretly in love with him in those moments when that puppy-bounce and that exuberance made his eyes glow warm. Or when he walked around near-naked, complaining about the cold. Or when he threw Pauline out of the kitchen saying, “You’re on holiday - I have a recipe within me and it needs to express itself before I explode.”

  * * *

  The scientists were not being stretched enough. They were ticking items off their laundry lists and working solidly on the day-to-day of data collection, but they were not excited about their work, Artemisia realised. The culture of science had its limitations. Or maybe these scientists, in this situation, had their limits.

  Luke called them together for a meeting. He had left the lid off his whiteboard marker and his pocket sported a black stain. Geoff’s eyes kept returning to it. If Luke didn’t carry those markers everywhere and write on every whiteboarded surface, he might not look so stained. Or maybe that was the Great Scientist in his Natural Habitat. Right now, it was disconcerting. It was like seeing the Theodore Luke Mann of the meetings back home, splendid and somewhat like an ancient prophet, emerging from the body of a tired old ragman.

  “We can add a study of the effects of increased population density on a rural areas, I think,” he radiated assurance, “without straining our resources or losing time on any of our real work.”

  “Cool,” said Geoff. It was the only way to react to such splendour.

  Artemisia wasn’t part of the meeting, but her workplace was their workplace and she couldn’t help overhearing. “What increasing density of population are you referring to?” she was honestly bewildered. “Montpellier would be good, but it’s a long way away. I can’t see”

  “Here,” interrupted Sylvia. “He means the village down below.”

  “Oh,” said Artemisia. She was unable to suppress sarcasm. “The town that has a stable population except during tourist season and has been that way for hundreds of years? The one in a place with such low population in general that its general location is known as ‘The Desert’. That place? Pilgrim Central? That place?”

  “That place,” said Geoff, not even trying to hide his grin.

  “When did these tourist seasons begin?” asked Luke, in an attempt to rescue his dignity.

  “Four centuries ago. Maybe five.”

  “Could you brief us on the tourist stuff? Why they come? What they do here?”

  “Sure thing,” said Artemisia, bright as a burnished penny. She had already written the briefing and circulated it. When they were trapped in the caves by the first pilgrim onslaught she had done it and sent a note round telling everyone. Maybe this time they would read it. Maybe this time Tony would take heed and avoid the tourist trails and the track the castle used for provisioning.

  “Then we’ll think about this again when we have perhaps a bit more context.” And the meeting was over. The matter was never raised again. The next day, Luke buried Artemisia’s brief on the religious tourism unread and unmourned. Again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Introducing Zombie Ancestry

  When Artemisia went to her room and said she was working on zombies, she was really trying to regain a little balance and perspective. She was reminding herself of the impossibility of most people as regards their past.

  The zombies were real. A real theory. When she had started teaching, she had started to collect opinions about the Middle Ages and, indeed about other times and places. She explained it to Lucia as, “A kind of Darwin Award where the stupid die off. Only they don’t just die off, they become zombies and beget zombie children who believe in the stupidities because their ancestors did. The original Flat Earthers.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lucia had confessed, her golden-brown head shaken to emphasise her bewilderment.

  “You know how people keep telling me that in the Middle Ages meat was rotten and disguised by spices?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the people who ate the rotting meat obviously died and their zombie descendants are the ones who are so very stupid.”

  “You know, you should stop being rude about my best friend.” The sisters smiled at each other conspiratorially, as was their way. Artemisia remembered that smile one day and whispered her theory to Geoff. She didn’t expect him to listen, of course. She was seeking the memory of her sister, lost with cancer in a future too far away.

  Artemisia found her sanity in her zombie notes and thoughts whenever the time team lost their brain. Cormac pressed her for explanations of those zombies and she put him off each time. She gave no excuses or reasons.

  Inside herself she knew exactly why she wouldn’t tell. If they paid attention to my briefings and respected me as a member of the team, then I’ll tell them about my private research. Until then, it’s none of their concern. So she teased the team with her mention of zombies.

  She didn’t know she was tantalising. For her, it was the work she wanted to do, her long-term project that would one day lead to a book. Zombie Ancestry from the Middle Ages, she would call it, and it would give her a bit more than the tales of saints and nineteenth century accounts of Languedoc to write about.

  She used the expedition library for her work on Languedoc, of course, and those nineteenth century accounts. She had some favourite descriptions of Philippe le bel already. In fact, she was full of colourful descriptions of Philip the Very Pretty. Notorious kings lend themselves to such things. Philippe could be turned into briefings if the others required it.

  Zombies were private.

  * * *

  “We need to monitor how we affect the water supply,” Ben told Luke.

  “I thought we did that already?”

  “Mac does some tests, but they’re ineffective.”

  “Tell Murray. He can handle it.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Mac and Geoff then spent a glorious afternoon puzzling over diagrams and maps.

  “We know where the water goes,” said Mac. “Can we check it now?”

  They ran a light dye - “Amino G acid,” said Cormac, proudly - through the system and took samples from the places it emerged and checked those samples. All very neat. All very effective. They had checked to see if there was damage from the cave dwellers, if the time team were damaging seepage or springs.

  “All clear,” Geoff reported. “We found traces of clay sediment and organic acids but that was all.”

  “Good,” said Luke. “Check again in three months or so.”

  “Next time,” Mac asked Geoff when they were keying in the results, “Can we use something that will
turn the waters red?”

  “No,” said Geoff. Mac gave him an I’ll-convince-you look, but left it there. “You know,” Geoff continued, apparently unworried, “This is almost entirely against protocol.”

  “Sylvia and Tony break protocol all the time. And besides, it’s not really so bad. Only a bit of colour.”

  “And only very locally. Out of sight of the villagers.” Geoff nodded. “Not breaching protocol really, just stretching it.”

  “Carefully.”

  Very carefully.”

  In the meantime, Sylvia decided to brave her headache. It wasn’t as if walking from her bedroom to the office area was a great problem. It was just that she hurt.

  Dr Smith forgot about the uneven floor. She had been negotiating it so automatically for just long enough that forgetting to look could have consequences. The chief consequence was that her arm was in a sling for a week and Geoff Murray gleefully appropriated her time on the viewing flat above their cave.

  * * *

  The priests handled the villagers’ concern over the blue waters. It was nothing, said Peire. It was nothing, said Louis. Abbot Bernard didn’t say anything, for no-one told him. It would not be nothing if he had to intervene. It’s a practical joke, said Peire, many times. A practical joke, echoed Louis. Remember the green baby, they said. Humans did this. It’s not the work of the Devil.

  “Is it the fairies?” Guilhem-the-smith asked Guilhem-the-knight.

  “They don’t have holy powers.”

  “Unholy, then?”

  “Neither. They’re human.”

  “And yet the water is blue in seven places.”

  “Very strange.”

  “Very strange.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Communications of a Kind

  Ben had taken the afternoon off. No-one knew, because he was technically out making observations. He had his little notebook and his camera and his backpack. He had climbed up a slope and fallen down it again, slipping on scree. He had laughed at himself both for slipping and for even considering whether it was scree or lumps of rock, because the day was hot and the weather was steady. It was the perfect weather for self-mockery.